


Don't Steal From the Inquisition

by andrhars



Series: Grimalkin [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But an excellent pickpocket, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Reader gets a nickname, Reader is a (bad) burglar, Reader needs to learn when to stop talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 13:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17023365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrhars/pseuds/andrhars
Summary: As far as burglary targets go, you could not have a chosen a worse one than the Herald of Andraste. Worse still, you got caught in a compromising position, and now the Inquisition thinks you were trying to kill him!Can you find a way to clear up the misunderstanding and escape before you're brought to Haven for interrogation?(First attempt at a Reader-story)





	Don't Steal From the Inquisition

It was bound to happen, really. Sooner or later, your ridiculous streak of luck had to run out. You just wished it hadn't happened in the middle of a camp filled with heavily armed, dangerous members of the Inquisition, all of whom were gathered around you with none- too-pleased expressions. Most had their weapons unsheathed and pointed at you, ready to end your existence at the drop of a hat.  

Frankly, you didn't blame them. It had been a particularly bad moment to get caught, leaning over a cot, trying to fish a valuable-looking necklace out from the occupant's pack, carelessly left wedged between the cot and the canvas wall of the tent. You'd had your dagger out, having cut your way inside through the opposite wall, and kept it out in case you needed to cut your loot free.

It had definitely looked like you were about to slash the occupant's throat—a bad look for any intruder caught in the middle of a camp, even if their intention was just to rob them all blind.

Worse still was the fact that your chosen victim of burglary wasn't just a tiny, unassuming elf who looked like he hadn't seen a proper meal in months. Honestly, you probably wouldn't even have gone for his tent if it hadn't been so tantalisingly near the edge of the camp.

No, as it turned out, you couldn't have chosen a worse person to steal from.

The bloody Herald of Andraste had definitely not taken well to waking up to a stranger leaning over him with a knife, which was why your lower half was currently encased in ice and your legs stuck in a very uncomfortable position. Your temple ached, and the warm, wet feeling of blood running down the side of your face, surely staining your mask, told you that the Herald's staff wasn't just a pretty (and probably very valuable) accessory.

Briefly, you wondered if there was a market for mages' staffs, and if the fences you knew would accept them, but you banished those thoughts quickly—you had slightly more important things to worry about at the moment.

Like your life, and how to preserve it.

Honestly, you felt a little bad, and not just because you'd been caught. In the split-second it took for the Herald to realise what was happening and blast you away with a burst of air, there'd been sheer, mindless panic in his eyes. You'd been about to apologise when all hell broke loose, and before you knew it you found yourself in this predicament.

"An assassin!" a stern-looking woman wearing the elaborate armour of a Seeker of Truth declared, looking down at you with an expression usually reserved for something unpleasant found under your boot. "Who do you work for?!" she demanded, pointing the tip of her sword at your throat. "The Chantry? The Mages? The Templars? Speak!"

"Er...no one? I guess you could call me self-employed," you tried with a cheeky smile, regretting it immediately as the woman's expression grew even sourer. You cursed your mouth—it always got away from you at the worst of times.  

"Very funny," the Seeker said with a sneer, bringing her blade a little closer to your throat. You tried to lean away from it, but the ice was holding you firmly in place. At this rate you were going to get frostbite. "Try again."

"Okay, okay, look!" you exclaimed, "this was an accident, all right? I'm not assassin, I'm just a thief! I didn't even know who I was stealing from!"

"A likely story," the Seeker said. "You're the first thief I've ever seen carry around an axe like that." She nodded to the one-handed, small-headed axe you carried on a loop in your belt. "And you just happened to be leaning over the Herald of Andraste with a knife, did you? A strange position for a thief to be in, wouldn't you say?"

"Well, yeah," you conceded with a nod and a grimace. There had been other things to steal within the Herald's tent, but it was the necklace that had stuck out in your field of vision. You always did have a weakness for green gems. "The axe is for self-defence—things are pretty hectic around here lately, in case you haven't noticed, and I was reaching for his pack, and figured I'd need to cut it open, and that's how I got into the tent in the first place, and I really had no idea who he was, and...and..." you trailed off, realising there was not a single sympathetic or believing face in the tight circle that had gathered around you. "I'm not even close to making a good case for myself, am I?" you asked, laughing nervously.

"Not really, no," a red-haired dwarf to your left said, studying you with narrowed eyes. Strangely enough, he didn't have a beard, whereas every other dwarf you'd ever met wouldn't be caught dead with a naked face. "Gotta say, kid, you don't really have a way with words. Might want to hurry it up with the explanation, or the Seeker here might just cleave you in half for wasting her time."

Judging by her strong frame and perfect stance, you had no doubt she actually could do just that. She probably wouldn't even need to use both hands for the job. You gulped.

"Ugh," the Seeker made a disgusted noise. "I wouldn't waste the effort—their head is good enough."

"Oh, that's...good?" you said, doing your best not to whimper. You failed.

"As far as assassins go, you're not a very good one," a deep voice said from behind you. You did your best to turn your head to look at the speaker, but you were still locked in place, so the best you could get was a brief look at their...horns?

A Qunari. Just your bloody luck. You'd heard the Inquisition employed all sorts of people, from the lowliest peasant to the highest nobles, but you definitely hadn't expected them to cooperate with the horned fanatics.

"I'm not an assassin!" you repeated insistently. "I'm a thief!" 

"Not a very good thief, then," the Qunari man (or so you assumed) amended with a grunt. "Either way, not getting caught is pretty much rule number one, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah, but..." you trailed off. You really didn't have a strong argument against that statement. It really was rule number one...at least in your opinion. You didn't know what rules other thieves lived by but getting in and out without leaving a trace had always been your primary goal.

And you always succeeded. Mostly.  
Sometimes.

It was about fifty-fifty, to be quite honest. Burglary wasn't really your specialty—you were more of a pickpocket. You only resorted to breaking into places when you were desperate, or when a particularly juicy target presented itself...like an Inquisition camp.

But you were fast, which meant you always got away even if your presence was discovered.

Until now, that is.

Your damned luck just had to run out tonight, didn't it?

"Bull," another voice spoke up, this one soft and even. "Could you please remove their mask? I'd like to see their face."

"You got it, Boss," the Qunari (Bull, apparently) said, loosening the strings that held your cloth mask in place, exposing your visage to the Inquisition members gathered around you.

There were no shocked gasps or exclamations of surprise. Why would there be? You were an utterly unremarkable elf in every way, and while you weren't exactly unpleasant to look at, you didn't turn heads when you passed them by either.

Honestly, it was one of the good qualities to have as a thief—it meant there was nothing in particular to make you stand out in your victims' memories, which made it more difficult for them to identify you to bothersome watchmen. One time, you'd even walked away from a potential arrest because the nobleman whose money pouch you'd lifted couldn't tell the difference between you and some other poor, random bastard...who'd ironically tried to mug you not five minutes before the watchmen came running.

Granted, that could have been because the man was highborn and therefore never bothered to take note of the people beneath his status, especially not knife ears.

Bastard.   

You'd still walked away with his money in the end, and if that wasn't a moral victory, you didn't know what was.

Well, possibly one where you didn't steal from someone, but what could you do? Times were tough.

Had been for as long as you could remember, really.

The dwarf seemed to be studying your face rather closely, though, like he was trying to solve a puzzle of some sort.

"Your accent," the same soft voice from before spoke, "it's Fereldan, isn't it?"

"What's it to you?" you asked before thinking. "Want to know where to send my ashes after killing me?"

They wouldn't have to go far, you realised. You couldn't find a place that embodied Ferelden more than the Hinterlands. Big, woodsy, and always vaguely smelling like dog...and these days full of people whose social graces extended to perhaps giving you a warning before trying to kill you.

At least the Darkspawn never tried to lure you into a trap—they were always completely honest with their intentions. You knew where you stood with monsters who wanted to slaughter and eat you.

The demons were new, but you knew better than to go anywhere near the rifts from which they popped out, hell-bent on destroying anything and anyone within view. It was one of those damn rifts that had forced you along the path to the Inquisition camp in the first place.

You wished you'd never come back.

"We'd certainly try to return your remains to your family," the voice spoke, its owner stepping back in front of you...causing you to inwardly curse your damn mouth again.

The Herald didn't look particularly angry or upset at your words...or even at the burglary- that-accidentally-turned-into-an-assassination-attempt. If anything, he looked curious, his big green eyes taking in every detail about you, furrowed brow causing creases in the delicate lines of his facial tattoo...whose proper name you could never remember.

Val-something.

The Dalish tongue was confusing and hard to pronounce—you'd never bothered learning, even when someone had offered to teach you.

"Good luck finding them," you found yourself saying as that ever-flowing spring of resentment at your so-called family started bubbling up again. "I never did."  

"All right, that is enough," the Seeker said, stepping up to the Herald. "What should we do with them?"

"Perhaps we could just let them go?" the Herald suggested, his eyes narrowing a little as they landed on the bleeding wound on your head.

"Let them go?!" the Seeker exclaimed. "They've already tried to kill you once; you want to give them a second chance?!"

"Well, it's like Bull said, isn't it?" the elven mage said, not backing down despite the Seeker's overbearing presence. "Even if they are an assassin, they're not a very good one—and I wasn't hurt. We've already spilled enough blood for today."

"I'm not exactly a big proponent of lopping the heads off of everyone we meet, Greenie, but just letting someone who not fifteen minutes ago had a knife to your throat go isn't exactly a good idea—"

"I didn't have the knife to his throat!" you protested. "It was just, you know...above it..."

The dwarf gave you a very unimpressed look. "Uh-huh," he said. "Coincidence, was it?"

"Well..."

"Out of the question," the Seeker said, evidently putting her foot down. "We are not letting the assassin go—"

"Cassandra," the Herald began, but he was cut off.

"—but we are not killing them either," she continued. "Whether their incompetence is an act or not—"

"A damn good act," Bull the Qunari said with a chuckle.

"An act or not, we need to find out who they're working for. I say we bring them back to Haven, where they can be interrogated." The Seeker—Cassandra—gave you a seething glare. "Then we will find out who they are."

The dwarf winced. "You're gonna give 'em to Nightingale?" He offered you a sympathetic look, shaking his head sadly. "Well, kid, it was nice meeting you."

The uncomfortable look on the Herald's face spelled nothing but doom for you. This Nightingale person was definitely bad news—some sort of torturer or something, probably. It made sense; the Inquisition was hardly the name of an organisation that was averse to pulling out the old thumbscrews in order to get what they want, even when they claimed to be a force for good.   

"You don't have to do that, really," you said, cold sweat beading on your forehead, trying to give them a cheerful smile...though it probably looked more manic than anything else. "Look, I'll tell you whatever you want! Want to know where I'm from? I'm from Ferelden! Denerim, to be exact! Grew up on the streets! The first thing I ever stole was a half-rotten apple from the back of a cart when I was five years old and starving!"

You laughed bitterly, remembering the mushy texture and the two worms you'd found inside. You'd eaten those, too. Probably got more nutrition from the worms than the apple, even!

"I managed to steal a loaf of bread a few days after," you continued, babbling in a desperate attempt to avoid ending your days in a dark dungeon somewhere, screaming in pain till your very last breath. "The watchmen chased me, but I escaped, and got back to the chicken coop I was living in, but some older kids beat me up and took it, and then...then..."

You trailed off as the Herald came closer and bent down so his face was level with yours, a sad look in his eyes.

"We're not going to hurt you," he said firmly. "That is a promise. We will simply be asking you some questions."

"I'll...I'll answer any question you want, right here, right now," you said. "Just...don't put me in a dungeon, please?"

You weren't sure you could take it. Not again.

The Herald shook his head. "We'll have to bring you with us, I'm afraid...but I'll try to make sure you don't end up in a dungeon. We do not mistreat our prisoners."

You fought the urge to point out that the name 'Inquisition' didn't exactly bring pleasant connotations to mind and lowered your head. There was no talking your way out of this.

"Fine," you muttered, trying to look as cowed as possible.

If you were lucky, they'd put manacles on you and leave you unsupervised every now and then on the way to Haven. You could work with that—picking locks was something you could do in your sleep.

* * *

Unfortunately, luck had decided it needed a break from you, and kept well away as the Inquisition prepared to move out the morning after. There were manacles, but you were never left to your own devices—at any one time, there was always at least two pairs of eyes on you (or one and a half, when Bull was watching you), preventing you from making use of the tiny set of lockpicks you kept in the cuff of your sleeve.

They were definitely not going to let you just waltz off after managing to sneak into the Herald's tent with no one noticing. The Seeker—Cassandra—seemed to take it as a personal insult, giving the men on watch a tongue-lashing for failing to spot you. You tried to convey your apologies to them with sad looks, but they just glared back.

At least the Herald had been truthful about them not mistreating prisoners...yet. You were even put on a horse, which was led by one of the Inquisition scouts. More than once, you were tempted to dig your heels into the creature's sides, to attempt a gallop into the distance and leaving your captors in the dust, but you quickly stamped the idea down when you realised that trying to ride a horse at a gallop with your hands manacled together behind your back was a very quick way of obtaining a broken neck.

As for the Herald himself, he was being kept away from you. Ostensibly, it was because having an assassin and their intended target too close together even when said assassin was effectively neutralised, but there seemed to be something else about the way Cassandra deliberately distracted the Herald, discouraging him from approaching you.

It was a pity—the Herald seemed to be the one person who didn't harbour strong feelings of resentment towards you. It'd be nice to have someone to talk to.

It was on the third day on the way to Haven that the dwarf, whose name you'd learned was Varric, approached you. It was just after the morning meal, and the Inquisition men were busy preparing their horses.

"How's it going, kid?" Varric asked, still looking sympathetic at your form, resting miserably against the tree to which you'd been chained. They gave you blankets and kept a small fire burning near you, so you wouldn't freeze to death in the mountain nights, but it was still far from comfortable.

"Oh, I'm fantastic," you replied, nodding to the smouldering embers of the fire. "Was just about to ask you to put it out—it's getting way too hot."

"I can imagine," he said, chuckling. "So, hey, a quick question..."

"Yeah?" you said. "Shoot."

You had been remarkably cooperative during your capture, in your opinion. You did as you were told, never tried to fight or run, and were always willing to answer any question they might have...not that they asked you any. They seemed content to let this Nightingale of theirs handle that. This was the first time since you were captured that someone had spoken to you outside of giving you orders.

"Have you ever been to Kirkwall?" Varric asked.

You couldn't suppress the full-body shudder that ran through you—and it wasn't because of the cold. You could go an eternity without seeing that shithole again, and it still wouldn't be long enough. The smell of Lowtown, with its refineries, tanneries, and slaughterhouses still

had unwelcome appearances in your nightmares, and the less said about Darktown, the better. The only good part about it had been the kindness shown to you by the elves in the Alienage, but even that hadn't been enough to make you actually like the place.

The dwarf grinned. "I'll take that look of horror as a yes," he said. "No one goes to Kirkwall without it leaving a lasting impression."

"Deep, mental scars, more like," you said.

"Heh, those too."

"But yes," you said with a nod. "I have had the dubious pleasure of spending time in the City of Chains—which definitely lived up to its name. Why do you ask?"

"Something about your face is familiar," Varric said, leaning a little closer, which prompted you to lean away. Bad things tended to happen when people wanted to look closer at you. "Ever been to the Hanged Man?"

"That pub in Lowtown? Once or twice."

A shithole in a shithole, that place had been, but it had also been ripe for the picking. Drunken idiots who didn't even notice when you stuck your hand deep into their pockets, fishing out whatever coins or little trinkets you could. It had been a low point in your thieving career, but you'd been injured and desperately needed the help of a healer. To make up for it, you'd taken a walk through Hightown the week after and taken everything you could from the snooty nobles. Most of the money from that had gone to the Alienage.

You hadn't given it to them outright, of course. You didn't want anyone to be able to trace the money back to either you or the elves, so you'd left bits and pieces in seemingly inconspicuous places for them to "find".

"I knew it," Varric said, pointing at you. "You made the rounds one night—I saw you. Didn't get that good of a look at your face, but I definitely saw your technique. Damn impressive, I gotta say. I was this close to having you kicked out."

He held up his hand, showing an impossibly tiny distance between his thumb and forefinger.

What were the chances, you wondered, of running into someone who'd only caught a momentary glance of your face in a bar miles upon miles from here?

"Why didn't you?" you asked.

"I saw your wound," the dwarf said, face softening. "Figured you had a reason for pilfering what you could. Decided to leave you to it, as long as you didn't go for my money, or that of my friends. If nothing else, you probably prevented some poor bastards from drinking themselves to death that night."  

"Ah...well, thank you."

"Don't mention it. So, what's your name?" he continued, making himself comfortable on the snowy ground in front of you. "No one's asked you yet. Greenie's probably dying to know by now, but Seeker's adamant about keeping you two apart."

You hesitated. You usually did when someone asked your name. Like your appearance, it was an unremarkable moniker that didn't bring anything to mind. Good for cover identities, but as a thief you had a certain...reputation and professionalism to live up to, to keep up appearances—and part of that was coming up with a good codename.

"Grimalkin," you replied.

  
You'd never been very good with codenames.

Varric's eyebrows rose a little. "Like a cat?" he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.

It really hadn't been your idea. It was just a name that stuck, given to you by your colleagues (so to speak) years ago. It pertained mostly to the fact that you were small, scrawny, and very light on your feet.

That, and you always managed to land on your feet (figuratively) when you fell—that is, messed up.

Like now.

  
Except you definitely hadn't landed on your feet this time.

"It wasn't my idea," you muttered, looking down at your boots. "Everyone thought it was hilarious, though. Most just call me Kin."

"Noted," Varric replied, nodding.

"Why're you being so nice to me?" you asked, unable to take it any longer. At some point, these people were going to reveal their true colours and torture you to death, you were sure of it.

Organisations like theirs always did—just look at the Templars and the Mages. Both sides claimed to be good, and some individuals among them probably were, but you'd seen what they were capable of once they thought they were in control or pushed into a corner. The area around Redcliffe was a damned slaughterhouse because of them.

The Inquisition claimed to be there to help the people caught between the two sides, but that was utter bullshit, you were sure. The Herald seemed nice enough, as did Varric, but the rest...well, you highly doubted you'd see the light of day again once you arrived at Haven.   

"Nice?" Varric asked. "All I've done is ask you questions."

"No one's beaten me yet, or done...worse things," you shuddered. "I've already told you I'm not an assassin, I've cooperated, I've done everything you've asked...but you're not letting me go, either."

"Were it up to Greenie, you'd be free to go by now," Varric said, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, Seeker's in charge when it comes to the security of things, and she's not really the type to just live and let live. At least not without letting Nightingale probe a little deeper."

"So, you _are_ going to torture me," you said, sighing miserably. "You're just leaving it in the hands of a professional. Figures...guess I shouldn't have expected anything else."

"I don't know what you've heard about us, Kin, but we're not really that kind of operation," Varric said, standing up and brushing snow off his trousers and tunic. "I could tell you not to worry, but we both know that's not gonna happen. All I can say is, trust Greenie. He's a good guy and won't let anything horrible happen to you."

"I'll believe it when I see it," you said.

"And I'll be there to laugh when you do," the dwarf said, winking at you before walking away, nodding to Bull as the massive Qunari came to fetch you.

"Up you get," the horned man said, pulling you to your feet, which had gone numb from sitting on the cold ground for so long. Between this and the Herald's ice magic from the first night, you were definitely going to get some sort of frost-related illness. "You good?" he asked after steadying you.

"What do you care?" you couldn't help but hiss.

"Oh, I dunno, you're pretty funny when you're confused," Bull said, chuckling when you bared your teeth at him in a snarl. "And cute when you're angry," he added.

"Fuck you!"

"Well, if you insist..."

"Eugh," you made a disgusted noise that would have made Cassandra proud and marched ahead, ignoring his chuckles when you tripped over your own feet, heading for your horse.

You may have been their prisoner, but that didn't mean you had to put up with this bullshit. Heh, bullshit.

  
You made a note of that. You just had to find a good moment to throw it in Bull's face.  

Maybe with some actual shit to really rub it in.

  
Your sense of humour had never really been that sophisticated.

* * *

The going was painfully slow, and the journey felt like it was taking forever since no one was particularly interested in engaging you in conversation. You'd been stuck between two Inquisition soldiers this time, while Varric, Bull, and Cassandra were tightly clustered around the Herald, deep in a discussion regarding...something or other. You weren't really able to discern what. Probably the most effective way of killing you and displaying your remains to the general public.

Flaying and displaying the skin of slaves that had displeased them had apparently been a favourite of some Tevinter Magisters, according to some horror stories you'd heard from elves who'd escaped that vile place. As far as you knew, the Inquisition had yet to ally themselves with them, luckily. You could only hope that this Nightingale didn't take inspiration from that part of Thedas.

Realising your thoughts were spiralling into even more misery, you decided to focus on something else that was, hopefully, less sinister than execution methods. The landscape around you proved helpful for a few minutes. You had never been this high up in the mountains before, and while the freezing temperatures were absolutely horrible, the views of the landscape below were stunning.

...but not stunning enough to keep you entertained for long. Instead, you focused on your captors. Varric was...well, Varric. Light-hearted with a kind smile, which concealed a steel edge. A rogue through and through. You didn't dare look too closely at Cassandra after she caught you staring and gave you the most disgusted expression yet, as if you weren't even worthy of looking at her. Bull's massive horns proved to be a good distraction as you tried to count the number of scratches and other battle wounds...until his singular eye caught yours and he winked!

...at least, you think he winked. It was hard to tell, with the eyepatch. You didn't take the chance, though, focusing, at last, on the Herald.

It was hard to imagine such a fragile-looking elf being Andraste's Chosen, and supposedly the figurehead of the Inquisition itself. Skinny, even more than you, he looked like a mild breeze would knock him over. His eyes were large and an unusual shade of green, continually scanning and taking in their surroundings. His skin was quite pale, like he never really spent much time out in the sun, which made his face tattoos stand out more.

 _Vallaslin_! That's what they were called!

You'd seen quite a few variations over the years; some were very complex, covering the elf's face entirely, while others were simpler and only resembled a few scrawls on the cheeks, for example.  

The Herald's was somewhere in between. His resembled naked tree branches that extended from the bridge of his nose to cover his forehead to the very edge of his hairline. The design itself was seemingly simple, but it must have taken meticulous work to ensure the lines didn't bleed into each other or run across each other.

If you remembered the exasperated hahren of Kirkwall's explanation correctly, each unique design was meant to symbolise the patronage of one of the old elven gods from times immemorial...or something like that. You'd tried to pay attention to the old man's explanation as he dressed your wounds, you really had, but theology had never caught your interest whatsoever, and the words had just slid off your brain.

The Herald's hair was a dirty blond colour, which he kept long and braided into plaits that held them back from his face.

Quite handsome, really, if one liked the Dalish look.

You weren't sure what to expect when your eyes met. The normal thing for him to feel towards you would be distrust and wariness, considering how you'd first met. All he did, however, was give you a tiny smile and a weak wave of a hand when Cassandra wasn't looking. Your hands were bound behind your back, so you couldn't return the wave, so you simply nodded with a neutral face.

Varric caught the exchange, however, and gave you a wink that pretty much said:

See? He's a good guy, promise!

And the Herald definitely looked nice...on the surface, at least. You knew what the Dalish were capable of, however, when riled up. Not the idiotic stories of savagery that the humans were so fond of regaling each other with in taverns after a few ales, of course.

You'd once spent an evening at a tavern in Denerim, speaking with a former Dalish mercenary who'd taken an interest in you. Nothing came of it, to her disappointment (you'd been too anxious after a botched meeting with a fence regarding some fake jewellery to even consider it), but you'd walked away with a profound realisation that pissing off the nomadic elves was an exceptionally bad idea.

So, the Herald could look and act as nice as he wanted—you knew that wasn't all there was to him.

Never mind the whole part with him being a mage, which made him a risky acquaintance at best, and downright dangerous at worst.

Oh, when would your luck return?

* * *

 

It happened so quickly, you barely realised what it was. One moment, you were travelling along a snowy path along a small, frozen-over lake, the mountains around you quiet and peaceful. 

The next, there was a bright, green flash in the air just above the lake, after which something that looked like a crack in the world opened up, spreading. It took you a second to realise what it was, and by then the demons were pouring out of the rift.

The horses panicked, including yours, and you were thrown out of the saddle as it reared up and took off along the path. You landed on your shoulder, hard, and cried out. The soldiers guarding you managed to dismount somewhat normally before their mounts ran away, but the first was immediately felled by a tall, spindly-looking demon with long, sharp claws and pale, green skin. The soldier fell, bisected at the waist, and the demon turned to you.

"Oh, fuck me!" you cried out, desperately scooting backwards in the snow, trying to get away from the thing. Its many eyes blinked as they focused on you, promising nothing but a painful death as it reached for you.

And that would have been the end of you, if the soldier who'd ridden behind you hadn't cried out in anger at her comrade's death and charged at the demon, hacking away at its thin limbs faster than it could react, finishing it off by severing its head.

"Good job!" you praised her. "Come on, unshackle me so I can help you!"

By running away, that is. Bandits, you could handle. Templars...well, sometimes. Darkspawn...depending on what time of the day it was and how much skin-covering clothing you were wearing, absolutely.

Demons? Nope, nuh-uh, no way!  
You'd be back in the Hinterlands within hours at the speed you were planning to run.

But the soldier didn't unshackle you. Instead, she pointed her blade threateningly at you and said, "Stay put, or I'll kill you myself," before heading into the bigger melee near the rift.

To your credit, you did stay put.

For about ten seconds, after which you deftly moved your wrist just so to dislodge the lockpick you kept in your cuff, which landed in your waiting hand, and went to work on the shackle lock.

You felt sweat on your forehead as you worked, your heart beating a mile a minute, praying that no other demons happened to spot you. There was a loud shriek as another demon was killed, and your cursed under your breath when the shock of it nearly caused you to drop the pick. The lock wasn't complicated, but it was sturdy, and one wrong move would snap the pick like a dry twig. 

You nearly thanked the Maker when you heard the tell-tale click of an opening lock, and the sudden lack of pressure around your wrist as the first shackle opened. With your newfound free arm, you quickly unlocked the other shackle as well, tossing them over the cliff for good measure.

You made to run, but paused when you saw your axe and dagger, still attached to the dead soldier's belt. The axe you could replace, but the dagger...

You ran over to the two halves of the dead man and quickly pulled the axe from his belt and returned it to yours, instantly comforted by its reassuring weight. Not even the smell of blood was enough to ruin the feeling. When you took the dagger back, it was like greeting an old friend. You would never leave it behind, no matter what.

With your weapons retrieved, it was time to run. You had no supplies, but you could improvise. Anything was better than staying here and becoming either demon lunch or the Inquisition's plaything.

You took a moment to survey the battlefield, satisfied to see that the Inquisition forces were holding their own. At least they were competent and could make good on their promise to stop the rifts. You were curious to see if they would, though, but that was something for the future to show. You were just about to leave when you spotted the Herald at the edge of the fight...and he was in trouble.

A group of three demons was corralling him backwards, towards the rift, away from his comrades, who were busy handling a particularly huge demon that dwarfed them all. None seemed to notice that their leader was being pushed backwards, barely able to throw up magic shields in time to block their attacks. There was no room for him to counterattack because of the onslaught.

You could run. This was your chance. If you didn't, you were probably going to get captured again, and there was no telling what they'd do to you this time, after undoing the shackles and rearming yourself.

...but you couldn't just turn your back on the Herald either.

"Damn it," you snarled and ran as fast as you could towards the Herald, nearly slipping on the icy surface of the lake. You drew your axe with your right hand and your dagger with your left, blade pointed downwards. You reversed your grip on the axe as well, to use the pointed hook that served as the blade's counterweight.

The fool was too busy with the two demons in front of him that he didn't notice the third one slipping behind him, ready to tear his throat out with its claws, its single eye rolling madly in its socket as it reached for him.

The Herald did spot you coming towards him, and there was an instant during which all you saw was a very complicated expression on his face and a slight, defensive shift in his posture. 

"Get down!" you yelled as you threw yourself forward, flying right at the third demon behind him. It looked as surprised as the Herald did, and you lashed out with the axe's hook, which sank deep into its flesh and caught on what should have been a collarbone, but felt more like very firm leather. It didn't matter, really, all you needed was an anchoring point, and this was it. You roared as you flew past, letting your momentum pull the axe with you—and taking the demon with it. It yelped in surprised as it was ripped backwards, sliding along the ice after you.

You came to a gradual stop on the slippery surface, your feet scrabbling to gain purchase so you could get closer, desperate to end the fight before it really began. Long, clawed fingers grabbed at the axe, trying to pull it out of its flesh, but by the time they got a grip it was too late. You were kneeling above it on the ice, dagger poised above its eye.

And you stabbed.

And stabbed.

And stabbed.

And stabbed.

And you didn't stop until you were sure the damn thing was dead, its body slowly fading away into ashes, floating on the chilly wind.

"All right, time to leave," you said to yourself, panting.

"Drop your weapons!"

You couldn't contain the litany of curses that came bursting out of your mouth at the sudden, harsh order from the Seeker. You'd been too busy making sure the demon was dead to notice that the Inquisition had you surrounded yet again, with Cassandra looking positively furious at your attempted escape.

Bad burglar, bad escape artist...man, I am slipping, you thought.

  
At least Varric found your frustration amusing, grinning from beside Cassandra.

"I just saved your damn Herald's life!" you exclaimed, unable to find your footing on the ice. "Doesn't that prove I'm not an assassin?!"

Cassandra shook her head. "That doesn't prove anything—you could be trying to fool us into letting you get close to him again! Drop. Your. Weapons."

"If I wanted him dead, I'd have taken his head off on my way past!" you protested, gesturing with your axe, which you knew she'd discovered to be razor-sharp when she'd inspected it a few days ago. "Or I'd just leave him to get mauled by that demon!" 

"Last warning!" the Seeker thundered. "Drop them!"

"I'd do as she says, Stabby," Varric urged you from the side-lines. "She's not one for idle threats."

There was another loud boom and everyone—including you—winced slightly at the sound and the second green flash. This time, however, there was no rift opening. No, that was the sound of the rift closing, a tendril of magic connecting the Herald's left hand and the hole in the world before it snapped, shut and disappeared without a trace, leaving no signs that anything had been amiss at all.

Save for the three Inquisition soldiers lying dead in the snow, that is. The one who'd refused to unshackle you was one of them, her eyes staring blankly up at the sky.

"What are you doing?" the Herald demanded as he walked up to them, rubbing his left hand, which was still glowing slightly. Whatever sort of magic he possessed, it seemed to be connected to the Fade, somehow. Must have been, if it could close the rifts.

That was...interesting. And horrifying. And you wanted nothing to do with it.

"Just making sure Stabby's not planning on slashing your throat again, Greenie," Varric said before Cassandra could.

You blinked. Stabby? Where did that come from?

  
The Herald sighed, flexing his glowing hand until the light slowly faded away.

"Cassandra, I really don't think they're an assassin. They just had a completely clear shot at killing me, and they didn't take it. They actually saved my life!"

"It's true," Bull said, coming to stand beside the Herald, having watched his back while he closed the rift. "I saw it with my own eye. Pretty impressive move there, killer. Pretty sure the Boss wouldn't be alive if you hadn't dragged that thing off."

"I'm not a..." you sighed, realising there was no point fighting it. "I'm just a thief...and I happen to know my way around a fight."

"Sounds like a skillset we could use in the Inquisition," the Herald said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, turning to Cassandra. "What do you think?"

The Seeker gaped at him. "Have you gone mad?!"

"I'm a Dalish mage who's pissed off all of Thedas by accidentally taking the title of Herald of Andraste, claiming I'm going to save the world with the help of a heretical order of warriors founded against the wishes of the Chantry," the Herald said matter-of-factly, grinning all the while. "I am, in fact, quite mad."  

"Can't argue against that, Seeker," Varric helpfully pointed out.

"Of all the...ugh, fine, but I will not have them armed until Nightingale has talked to them!" She pointed her sword at you again. This seemed to be running theme with the two of you. "Drop your weapons!"

There really was no way out this time either. Even if you somehow managed to find your footing on the ice and somehow escape them, you had a feeling Varric would put a bolt in your back, no matter how nice he seemed. Glaring back at the Seeker, you dropped your axe and dagger at your feet, kicking them towards Varric.

"I'll be expecting those back," you said. "And I'm not joining the Inquisition."

"We'll see, Stabby," Varric said with another wink.

As the group began to clean up after the fight, you found yourself a little listless. You weren't shackled anymore, but you were also unarmed and only carrying the clothes on your back. You could theoretically run, and possibly even get away, but you wouldn't stand a chance against the elements up here. All you could do was follow them to Haven and, hopefully, prove your innocence, after which you could walk away.

"Thank you."

You blinked, realising the Herald was standing right in front of you, mere paces away. He was smiling warmly at you, and it made him look young...which he definitely was. No more than twenty-five, if even that, in your estimate.

"Er...for what?" you asked.

"For saving my life," he said, cocking his head to the side, confused. It was a little cute, if you were completely honest. "Truth be told, I really was in trouble, and I didn't expect you to come charging in like that. I'm still getting used to fighting these things—they've a habit of sneaking up on you if you take your eyes off them for even a second."

"Oh...well, you're welcome," you replied. "Are you sure you want to be standing this close to me? I could still kill you, even without my weapons."

"You could, but I don't think you will." His eyes really were an odd shade of green, like emeralds with darker speckles concentrated around his irises. "My name is Khaim, of Clan Lavellan." He held out a hand (not the glowing one), and you took it after a moment of hesitation, unsure if it was a trick or not.

"Grimalkin," you said, shaking his hand quickly before letting go. "Kin, for short."

"Varric told me," the Herald—Khaim—said. "But that's more of a codename, right?"

"It is," you confirmed. "My real name is...well, none of your business." 

Oof, you really needed to put a muzzle on yourself one of these days. Heretic or not, the Herald was not the sort of person you wanted to piss off. Honestly, he was the type of person you didn't even want to know you existed.

To your surprise (you were surprised a lot these days), Khaim laughed.

"You're right," he said. "It really isn't...but I don't think Leliana will agree."

In a heartbeat, your world took on yet another terrifying turn of events. If it hadn't been for your conversation with Varric, you would have thought it a coincidence, but if a random dwarf from Kirkwall was suddenly a part of the Inquisition and recognised you from at least six years ago...well, you didn't stand a chance in hell that it wasn't the same Leliana.

Your luck still hadn't returned, it seemed.

"Geez, Greenie, what did you tell 'em? That we'd bring out the ol' thumbscrews and racks just for them?" Varric asked, coming up to you. "Hello? Anyone in there?" he said, waving a hand in your blank, unresponsive face.

"I didn't say anything!" the Herald exclaimed, just as confused. "I just said that their real name wasn't any of my business, but that Leliana might not feel the same!"

Varric looked between the two of you a few times. "Stabby?" he asked.

"This Leliana..." you said slowly. "Wouldn't happen to have red hair, speak with an Orlesian accent, and be scary as all hell?"

Khaim blinked. "Oh, you've met?"

  
Varric sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  
"Stabby, is there anyone in Thedas you haven't tried to rob?"

"Maker's breath, I'm going to die!" you cried so loud your voice echoed throughout the mountains.


End file.
